Come in Under the Shadow
by llethe
Summary: Nothing familiar. Everything given. Supremacy, MarieJason, AU


Disclaimer: _The Bourne Identity _and _The Bourne Supremacy_ are owned by Universal. No profit, no gain, not for me, at least.

Summary: Nothing familiar. Everything given. (Supremacy, Marie/Jason)

Rating: PG-13

Category: _Supremacy_. Alternate universe, character death. I want to call it gen, but it's a dark Marie/Jason.  
Characters: Jason Bourne, Marie Kreutz

Author's Note: (1) This is only an AU in the sense that an event happens differently. I never intended the story to go AU, and I really can't pinpoint a reason for it; once it struck me, I didn't want to let it go, as I love the irony and weight of it. (2) This is the first fanfic I've finished in three years, so with or without errors, with or without perfection, it's up. (And I'm sure I'll reread it at some point soon and want to rewrite and add, which is exactly why I'm calling it done and published.) I've missed the "OMG like my fanfic!" jitters. ;) (3) It's a sort of experiment in tenses; I've never used the "had done" in place of regular past tense before, so if it's completely annoying and I did it all wrong, well, what can I say; there's a reason I changed my major from English. ;) Enjoy!

**Come In Under the Shadow**

**by llethe**

Marie loved Jason, in spite of him.

He hadn't liked to stay in one place for too long; paranoia and unease – maybe justified, maybe not – had driven them to different countries, different cities, every few months. Though he'd tried to stay longer, to disregard the statistics or training or whatever had urged him to run without a reason she could see.

The shop in Greece – _the_ shop, not _her_ shop, nothing so personal – had been the first sacrifice. The first few days of being reunited had been good: talking, enjoying each other, taking their time. His hair had been longer, and he'd smiled more. The same could have been said for her. They had been fresh and new, happy and young, it seemed.

One month later, she had been on a boat, shop sold for cash. He'd wanted to leave, worried for her safety, but he wouldn't go without her. What could she have said to that? What could she have said to him?

They had gone to Palermo for two months, and then to Monaco, which was too close to Marseille, as it had turned out. Jason hadn't liked Marseille, and he hadn't liked Monaco. Only three weeks there, long enough to have launched new nightmares. Barcelona had been better, though not quite further, and they'd stayed for three months.

"I'm trying, Marie," he'd said.

All the cities he'd chosen were by the Mediterranean Sea, but only after Monaco had he spent lengths of time staring at it. She knew that he'd been out there once, would have drowned if not for luck or the grace of god. So he would stare at the sea, had kept them near it. Looked at it more than he had looked at her. Tell her, then, what he had been trying to do.

"I'm trying, Marie," he'd said, and she believed that he'd believed it.

Marie had never been a settler; she liked to move, to travel, not just see the world, but live it. Her dream, her ambition before a $20,000 drive to Paris was to study in the United States. Jason had heard her in the consulate, had known why she had been there, but had never mentioned it. For all that he apologized, he had never apologized for that.

If he had tried, she wouldn't have let him. That was a dead dream, the United States a prison or a grave. There had been nothing else to do but travel and live the world, which to her meant meeting people instead of potential witnesses, making friends instead of potential victims, seeing police officers instead of would-be wardens. To Jason, living had meant staying alive.

Jason never seemed more relaxed than when they had been in transit. He would sleep better, smile more, seem worriless. She'd hated the times they left, but she'd remembered why she loved him during these times. Even when she'd hated him.

Napoli. Malta. Izmir. Four months between them all. It had been in Izmir that she had first shirked away from him. His arms around her back for one, two seconds, until she'd pulled away, "goodnight, Jason," her explanation.

What could she have said when she had known that he was right? He'd always been right about these things. But life was not worth not living one.

Marie loved Jason, though a murderer he may have once been and though a killer he'd remained ready to become again, in spite of what it took to stand by him. In spite of what she chose to give.

It had been difficult to deflect blame from him, during the hard nights and the hard mornings when she'd missed her life. The easy nights and the easy mornings had come when she told herself that her life was not so much different than how she'd lived it, that her friends had moved on and had families, that she had Jason and Jason had her. But a life? The lack thereof filled the hard nights and hard mornings with anger for him that had coupled with distaste for herself.

The one night she wouldn't let him touch her was all that it had taken. He had been gone in the morning – rare, as he hadn't liked to leave her alone and asleep, just as he'd hated being left alone to sleep. He would call it defense, keeping watch even if neither of them were awake, but he just hadn't liked being alone.

Jason had liked the sound of a voice not his own, and he had liked the sounds of living with another person. She'd known him too well, known that left alone, he wouldn't have lived; he would have brooded, sat by himself and waited.

"We're leaving tomorrow," he'd said when he'd come back in the afternoon.

Nearly the entire day she'd regretted turning her back on him, waking up without him there, without a word or a note to explain away his absence. Marie loved Jason – she did. It had just been a hard life, a hard pace, too many maybe's and what if's. When he'd come back without so much as a hello, voice hard and cool, it hadn't been about love or reasons why.

"Jason, I don't want to leave again," she had said. But she had wanted to leave; she had hated Izmir like he had hated Monaco. "Why are we living like this?"

"Marie," and he'd looked at her, glared almost, "we're leaving."

She'd packed her bags, anxiety in her hands and fingers. For all of his talents and skills, for all the subtle nuances he'd seen where she had seen none, he hadn't noticed how close she had been to leaving him. It would have destroyed her, but for the sake of herself, of her happiness, she had seen no other way.

In another car that she would never see again, she had wondered what country they would be going to. Greece? Egypt, maybe, somewhat of a change? Jason had liked the Mediterranean too much to deviate, which hadn't left many options. Before, though, they had never taken a plane.

--

India. They had landed in Mumbai, driven to Goa. By the sea, still, but the Arabian. He'd bought a wooden condo by the coast by the end of the day they'd arrived. It wasn't small or big, and it wasn't shabby or luxurious. It was good.

On the porch, he'd told her, "If you want, we'll stay. We'll stay, I promise. Make a real life. Whatever you want."

She wanted. He had, too, she had seen that. If he hadn't wanted to leave Treadstone behind, he wouldn't have found her again. But there had been tension in his shoulders when she'd hugged him, tension in his eyes, and he'd smiled like he'd been chewing glass.

--

Marie loved Jason, even as he'd become more and more involved in his own head, even as he'd tried too hard, worried too much for her. The dismissals of his dreams - "go back to bed; I'm fine," he'd say, clearly contained in his own head, his worry for her off-hand, a hollow reaction.

Perhaps that was too harsh. He would touch her face, her hair in those moments. The look in his eyes had scared her in those times. She had been his "all the time," his only something good. Jason had been the killer, but all the power had been for her.

He'd said that they would stay, but his dreams had stolen him. Without them, Marie thought he could have forgotten the idea of his previous life, lived for his present, what he had. But his dreams had stuck to him, made him stick, and grounded him to a halt.

Marie loved Jason, even when she could barely stand him, even when she had wondered where she'd be at any particular moment, if he'd kept his word a year and a half ago (not two, as he'd argue). Maybe she would be dead, instead. Maybe the people he'd worked for hadn't believed his lie that he'd killed her. Maybe they would have found her a day or a week after he convinced her to leave. Maybe they weren't even looking.

"We don't have a choice," he'd said, eyes wild, Jason Bourne come to life.

In his dreams, at night and in the morning during his runs, her Jason had died. "Write it down," she would tell him, sincerely believing it would help, half hoping that he would remember and call it over, and half hoping that he would never remember the killer. The more he had remembered, the more clear the glimpses of himself had become, the less she had seen of her Jason and the more she had witnessed of theirs.

He had run more, spoken less, real smiles rare. Colder eyes, harder, thicker body, and she had known. She'd known. Their time together had been finite; he had been preparing, moving toward the moment where he'd told her: "we don't have a choice."

But he'd had a choice, and she'd told him as much. He'd had a choice.

"Yes, you do," and he'd looked at her for too long, his taken eyes off the road for too long. Her shoulders had tensed, though she'd known who he had been and what he could have done, the man who would call a steep set of stairs a "bump."

She had said nothing he'd not already known, nothing that should have surprised him; Marie loved Jason enough to know that when he'd said "we," all of those times, he'd meant it. And when she'd said "you," he hadn't known what she'd meant. Marie loved Jason, and she had not meant it in the way he feared most. Not this time.

Marie had looked at him again, ready to repeat herself because what else could she do, when glass shattered, blood came, and Jason slumped forward against the wheel.

Too fast and too late, the first time she witnessed Jason let a situation slide out of control, and the jeep no longer had a driver at its wheel. Too late she realized, too late to do anything when she looked away from Jason and saw the edge of the bridge.

Blood in the water, like powder, coming from his neck or back of his head, she couldn't be sure. Jason's eyes were open, arms floating, lips parted. Jason.

Marie loved Jason, but she didn't touch him one last time. Just that very early morning, she had leaned on his back, rubbed his shoulders until the early hour caught up to her and she'd gone back to bed. She'd woken up and he had been gone, running shoes not by the door, clothes he wore to bed neatly put away in the dresser.

Marie loved Jason, and she left him in the river. The water was cool, his preference: cool breeze, cool sheets, cool water. Every morning, the top blanket on their bed would be pushed down to the end of the mattress; it had never woken her, never bothered her. They'd slept with the window open, cool nights and cool mornings.

Marie loved Jason, and she left him. She didn't take his watch. Every day he would clean that watch, the only time it would come off of his wrist. Every day he had taken it apart, used the rod of an errant earring to push out the pins and remove the band. He would wipe down the face, the back, the entire band; every day had been too often to see a difference. Ten minutes a day for the watch, compulsively.

Marie swam away as far as she could, stayed under as long as she could, and pushed toward where she thought Jason would have gone, toward the cover the bridge's foundation would provide.

She pressed her back against the concrete, breaths short and fast and desperate. Her eyes stung, her chest felt crowded and full, but she didn't cry. No tears, even though everything else was there, waiting for them.

Jason's body came up with the jeep. Marie had held her breath as she watched, a myth she hadn't known she'd created for him whispering "maybe." Jason was there, though, where she had left him: eyes open, lips parted, watch tight against his left wrist, hole in the base of his skull.

Marie still did not cry. She watched from afar, cold, numb. Just that. Nothing familiar and everything given.

--

end

August/September 2007

llethe / llethee (at) gmail (dot) com


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